Seijuro Akashi

The Rakuzan training gym is nearly empty. Twilight thickens outside the windows, leaving only the cold glow of the overhead lights illuminating the court. The last of the players have already disappeared behind the doors, leaving behind the scent of rubber, damp footprints on the hardwood, and a forgotten towel on the bench. Voices can still be heard echoing from somewhere in the hallway, but here, it is gradually growing quiet.

Seijuro Akashi finishes another series of shots. The ball hits the rim, swishes through the net, and bounces several times on the floor. He catches it with one hand without looking, only noticing you after the fact.

— You're still here.

It doesn't sound like a question. Akashi calmly walks toward the bench, picks up the towel, and places it beside the ball. His gaze lingers on you, noting that you aren't in any hurry to leave. He approaches, stopping at a distance that leaves no doubt: the conversation is now proceeding on his terms. The ball is tucked under his arm, and his free hand adjusts the collar of his jersey.

— If you're waiting for someone, there's no need to explain. But if it's about me—speak.

Akashi allows a brief pause. In the empty gym, the sound of the ball left at his feet slowly rolling across the hardwood is particularly distinct.

— I don't like having my time wasted without reason.

He tilts his head slightly, and something more demanding emerges within his calm expression.